


Turkish March

by lenin_it_to_win_it



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Other, aziraphale plays piano, multitasking QUEEN, we stan a musical genius icon, while also playing crowley like a goddamn fiddle, whomst can play beethoven while his demon husband tenderly hand feeds him sweets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-20 15:37:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19994596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenin_it_to_win_it/pseuds/lenin_it_to_win_it
Summary: When Aziraphale unexpectedly brings a piano home, it takes some convincing to bring Crowley around to the idea. Fortunately, Aziraphale is very persuasive.





	Turkish March

**Author's Note:**

> i refuse to believe aziraphales been dicking around on earth for 6000 years and hasnt learned piano or some other instrument like if i was an immortal being?? u can bet im gonna become a musical fucking mastermind out of boredom if nothing else, so heres a cute fic where he plays piano for crowley 
> 
> also this doesnt come up in the fic but i bet crowley can play an instrument too, but like, he only knows how to play wonderwall

Crowley clenched his hands into fists. The muscles in his neck were tense, and every line of his stance seemed to point toward anger being forcibly held in check. “What is _that_?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and innocent. _Too_ innocent. “Oh, you mean this?” he asked, holding up a small shopping bag. “Well, you know that sweet shop I’ve always meaning to go to but never do? The one across from the post office? I finally went, and their Turkish delight looked so. . . well, _delightful_ , that I thought I would purchase some for us to have with our tea. But, if you’d _really_ like to try some now—”

  
“Stop that!” Crowley cut through Aziraphale’s nervous rambling. “You know what I’m talking about.” 

  
“Oh.” Aziraphale at least had the grace to look guilty, lowering the bag as he glanced over at the upright piano newly installed along the wall of Crowley’s living room. “That.” 

“Yes, angel. _That_.” 

Aziraphale avoided Crowley’s glaring eyes. “I suppose it might take some getting used to—”

  
“We’re not ‘getting used to’ anything!” Crowley snapped. “That _thing_ has to go.” 

Aziraphale put on his imploring look. “Oh, but, Crowley—”

“Don’t you ‘but, Crowley’ me!” Crowley still spoke sharply, but he could already feel his anger fading. It was hard to stay upset with Aziraphale— infuriatingly so. He made a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “Can’t you just. . . stick it somewhere in that bookshop of yours?” 

Aziraphale’s face lit up; he already knew the battle was as good as won. Nevertheless, he still attempted to put on a tragic expression for Crowley’s benefit. “It won’t fit, Crowley, dear. I’ve already done the measurements— there simply isn’t room.”

Crowley did his best to ignore the warm, fluttery feeling he got in his chest whenever Aziraphale called him, ‘dear’. “There isn’t room here, either,” he pointed out, gesturing to the couch, which had been shoved far closer to the television than normal in order to accommodate the piano. “You’ll have our heads poking through the screen every time we sit down.” 

Aziraphale pretended to consider this for a moment before turning to Crowley with an appealing smile. “I’m sure we can rearrange things and come to a suitable compromise.”  
  
Crowley snorted. He knew from experience that any ‘compromise’ with Aziraphale simply meant letting the angel have his way. “Sure.” 

Aziraphale’s expression grew serious for a moment. “If you really want me to get rid of it, I will.” 

Crowley sighed. He knew the offer was genuine; he also knew he wouldn’t make Aziraphale follow through with it. If Aziraphale wanted a piano, Crowley would let him have his piano. Aziraphale could fill the entire apartment with nothing but pianos and Crowley would let it happen, just so long as it meant Aziraphale would smile at him the way he did when Crowley shrugged and said, “Keep it.”  
  
“Oh, thank you, Crowley!” Aziraphale beamed, his face practically glowing with joy, and Crowley felt as breathless as it was possible for something that didn’t need to breathe to feel. 

“Sure. Fine. Whatever.” Crowley tried to look annoyed. “Why’d you get this thing, anyway? I’ve never heard you mention wanting a piano before.” If he had, Crowley certainly would have remembered it. He was careful to keep track of those sorts of things— likes, dislikes, peculiar interests, or, really, anything Aziraphale had said to him over their 6,000 years of friendship. 

“Well, I was reading up on music theory earlier—”

  
Crowley groaned. “Books. It’s always the damn books with you.” 

Aziraphale continued as if Crowley hadn’t interrupted. “—and I realized it had been a while since I played, and I thought, well. . .” A faint flush colored his round cheeks, and it was all Crowley could do not to immediately take Aziraphale’s face in his hands and kiss him until that delicate pink deepened into red. “You’ve never heard me play, have you?”

“No.” Crowley was intrigued, but he forced his voice to remain nonchalant. “Can’t say I have.” 

Aziraphale sat down at the piano with a shy smile. “Would you like to?” 

Suddenly, there was nothing in the world Crowley wanted more than to hear Aziraphale play. “Might as well,” he heard himself say. “Since you’ve already gone and brought the blasted thing into my living room.” 

Aziraphale flexed his fingers, almost but not quite touching the keys. “Any requests?”

  
Crowley had half a mind to suggest something by Queen, but Aziraphale looked just self-conscious enough, poised at the piano and looking up with wide, questioning eyes, that he decided to leave the teasing for a little later. “Well, let’s hear some Mozart, then,” said Crowley with a shrug. “I liked him. Tried to make a pass at me at that one ball in the 1780s. Told me I had the shapeliest ankles he’d seen in a man, the cheeky bastard.” 

“You really _do_ have lovely ankles, my dear.” Before Crowley could react to that, Aziraphale launched into his performance. “I’m afraid I’m quite out of practice,” he said with an apologetic smile as beautiful music flowed forth effortlessly beneath his fingers. “It’s been. . . oh, a hundred or so years. My technique is atrocious.” 

Crowley had heard performances by some of the most talented musicians humanity had to offer, but Aziraphale’s playing. . . it wasn’t that the piece was incomprehensibly difficult, but the music itself was transfigured in Aziraphale’s hands. It was _divine_. 

When the song had ended and Crowley’s astonishment subsided to the point where he felt he could keep his voice from shaking, he said, “Turkish March, right?”

Aziraphale nodded.

  
“What made you pick that one?” 

“Oh, you’ll think it’s silly, but. . .” Aziraphale blushed. “. . . I suppose it’s because I was thinking of that Turkish delight I bought earlier.” 

  
Crowley smiled in spite of— or perhaps because of— the fact that Aziraphale was still facing the piano and wouldn’t be able to see it. Only Aziraphale would play such sublime music with such a mundane inspiration in mind. “Why don’t you play something else?” he suggested. “A minuet about marzipan, or a symphony devoted to sushi?” 

“Oh, don’t tease!” Aziraphale protested, smiling. “I _will_ play something else, but only for myself,” he added with convincing faux-haughtiness. “Clearly, you don’t appreciate fine art.” 

Aziraphale started to play again. Crowley knew it was Beethoven, but couldn’t identify the specific piece, not that he put much thought into puzzling it over. Instead, he meandered away for a moment, grabbed the shopping bag Aziraphale had set down earlier, and sat down on the piano bench. The angel looked surprised at first, then he gave Crowley a gentle, almost shy smile. The music did not falter; if anything, the sound grew stronger and brighter, but that may have simply been a shift in the mood of the piece. 

As inconspicuously as he could, Crowley dug through the bag and began unwrapping the Turkish delight. He lifted a piece to Aziraphale’s lips, and the angel only hesitated for a moment before inclining his neck slightly to take the bite. His warm, soft lips brushed against Crowley’s fingers.  
  
“ _Stick your entire hand in his mouth_ ,” Crowley’s brain told him. “ _Do it. Do it right now_.” 

  
“ _Oh, shut up_ , _you,_ ” Crowley told his brain. 

  
Crowley did not stick his hand in Aziraphale’s mouth, but he did feed him a few more pieces of Turkish delight before the song ended. 

Aziraphale sighed, the sweet, happy sound of contentment more musical to Crowley’s ears than any song or symphony ever composed. “Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley made a face. “Don’t thank me. It makes my skin crawl.” 

“Curse you, then, o wily serpent,” said Aziraphale, smiling as he lightly set one of his hands on top of Crowley’s. “Dire tempter.” 

Crowley shifted so he and Aziraphale were no longer side by side but facing one another. He lifted his unoccupied hand to touch Aziraphale’s cheek. “My worst enemy.” 

Aziraphale scooted closer, until he was practically sitting in Crowley’s lap, their noses almost touching. “My best, most dearest friend.” He lifted his chin, parted his lips, and Crowley closed the rest of the distance with a kiss that went on for quite some time. When they finally pulled apart, Aziraphale was wearing a very smug and un-angelic grin that made Crowley feel like his bones had turned to gelatin. “See? Aren’t you glad we kept the piano?” 

**Author's Note:**

> THREE FICS DEEP AND I FINALLY FINISHED THE SHOW HELL YEAH


End file.
